


hiding tonight

by orestes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Cat Burglars, M/M, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 17:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1356628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orestes/pseuds/orestes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles crept into Derek’s life the same way he crept into his house: unwanted, uninvited, and entirely without warning. First he stole a miniature wolf statue. Then he stole Derek’s heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hiding tonight

**Author's Note:**

> two fics! one week! i'm on a roll. this happened because i got an image of stiles sneaking into derek's room through the window stuck in my head and it wouldn't go away. huge thanks to [becca](http://archiveofourown.org/users/justintimberlake) for the beta!

Stiles crept into Derek’s life the same way he crept into his house: unwanted, uninvited, and entirely without warning. First he stole a miniature wolf statue. Then he stole Derek’s heart.

It was the middle of the night. Derek was still awake, but barely. He was sat in the family library, as he had been since dusk, with a heavy book on his lap and his reading glasses perched on his the end of his nose. It was hard to make out the print in the half-light of a single dull lamp, but he couldn’t be bothered to get up and switch the main lights on. Not when moving would run the risk of him losing his place on the page.

He didn’t notice, at first, the soft pad of footsteps against the floorboards upstairs. Perhaps he wouldn’t have noticed it at all, had a floorboard not creaked and punctured the tranquility of nighttime silence.

Derek’s head snapped up from his book at the sound. He knew the guilty floorboard at once; he walked across it every day. It was half way between his bedroom and the stairs down to the library. The noise it let out every time he stepped on it was utterly distinct. A slow “creeeaak” that began a whine and ended on a groan.

There were two possibilities: either that Derek _was_ too tired to still be awake and had started hallucinating, or that someone was trying to get into his bedroom.

It was probably Cora. She’d been trying to take pictures of him sleeping recently, because she was an awful and twisted individual who thought it was funny to startle people awake with a blinding camera flash. He sighed, put his book to one side and decided to go and catch her in the act. If he was lucky, he might even be able to snatch the camera and smash the blasted light at the top of it.

He dodged the creaking floorboard as he snuck upstairs to his bedroom. Crept through the carpeted corridor, barely letting out a breath. The door to his room was minutely ajar. He bit his lip, nudged it forward which his socked toes and prayed the hinges wouldn’t squeak and give the game away.

They didn’t. Derek did.

“You aren’t Cora,” Derek said, voice embarrassingly shrill. His eyes fixed on the hooded figure hanging half in and half out of his window.

The intruder snorted. “No fucking shit, Sherlock.”

His voice was a low tenor, surprisingly gentle in tone, and his words were laced with amusement.

One of his hands was balanced on the windowpane. The other was curled around a familiar marble statue. Even in the dark, Derek could recognize which it was: an antique piece that Peter had brought back from an auction a week ago with a triumphant smirk and a wink. It was a collector’s item, he had boasted.

“Looks like a regular marble wolf to me,” Derek had told him, shrugging.

Peter had glared back at him. “Well it would, to someone like _you_. Your eyes aren’t adequately trained to appreciate real art.” He sniffed once and shook his head at Derek. Then he turned his gaze to Cora. “You see what spending too much time with your nose buried in books does to you?” he asked, and his voice was grave. “I warned you, Derek. Reading numbs the eyes to beauty.”

Derek’s eyes certainly don’t feel numb now.

“You’re stealing,” he accused lamely.

That startled a laugh from the stranger. “Wow,” the guy said. “You got me.” He tilted his head towards Derek, let go of the windowpane and held up his free hand in mock-surrender. In the moonlight, it looked almost like he was smirking. “So what you gonna do about it?”

Derek didn’t hesitate before lunging at him.

He made it halfway across the room before the stranger swung the window open fully and did a neat backflip out of it. Derek got to the window just in time to see him land on his feet.

The thief turned back towards the window and waved up at Derek. There was no denying his smirk now. “Nice try,” he called up to Derek. “But not really. You weren’t even close. Work on your reflexes before next time.”

Derek blinked down into the darkness. A moment later, the figure was gone.

\---

“Why didn’t you call the police?” Peter’s voice was frantic as he paced the length of the kitchen and back again. “If you saw someone _enter our home_ and _steal from us_ , Derek, why didn’t you take out your cell and dial 911? Jesus, they teach kids that in kindergarten.” He ran an agitated hand through his hair. “Do I need to send you back to pre-school?”

“No,” Derek snapped. “Look, I told you what happened already. I was tired and assumed I’d dreamt it.” They’d been having this conversation all morning; ever since Derek woke up and realized the statue had disappeared for real. Five hours ago. He sighed. “I’m sorry your statue got stolen, okay? But there’s nothing I can do about it now.”

Peter glared back at him. “Oh, you will be sorry,” he muttered darkly. “That thing cost me two-hundred thousand!”

“Two-hundred thousand?” Derek raised an eyebrow at him. “You told us it cost fifty.”

Peter spluttered. “That’s not the point!”

“It is when you’re spending _our_ money,” said Derek. He crossed his arms over his chest and leveled Peter with a scowl. “I wonder what Cora will say when she finds out how much you’ve spent. Should I call her down, or do—”

“No,” said Peter, clearing his throat. “Just forget it. I’m going to make some calls.”

With that, he scuttled out of the room.

\---

Two nights later, Derek was reading in his bedroom. He had a new hinge installed on all the windows in the house. Now they barely opened and the air always tasted stale and stuffy in his mouth. He sighed. Flicked over the page. Skimmed it. Realized he had no idea what he’d just read and put the book down.

The window rattled. Must have been the wind. Derek pushed himself off his bed, stretching as he did, and padded over to it. It was a cloudy night outside, and he could only see the tip of the moon peaking out through the bottom of a cluster of clouds. It cast ghostly silver shadows under the trees, whose silhouetted branches splayed like wandering hands across the lawn.

A feeling of unease crept over him as he stared out over the motionless garden. It was all too stagnant, too still. He shuddered once then slammed the window shut.

Derek settled back in his bed and picked his book up again. The window rattled. He let out a short, irritated exhale through his nose and ignored it. Whoever fit the new hinges must have left them too loose. Derek would have to check them in the morning, to take a screwdriver to their joints and fix them.

The window rattled. Then it swung wide open and a hooded figure slipped in.

“You need a better security system,” said the stranger.

It was the same man with the same low tenor as before, and the same note of humor coloring his voice. Derek’s back went ramrod straight and his book fumbled out of his clumsy hands. It landed face down on the mattress, open at a random page.

Derek glared at him. “You made me lose my page.”

“Oh no. What a calamity. There’s a thief in your house for the second time in one week and—”

The guy stalked closer to the bed as he talked. He probably meant to scare Derek, but it didn’t really work. Instead, it made him angry. Derek didn’t hesitate before he threw his book at the guy’s head. It was a hard-back, and a heavy one at that. If the stranger didn’t have such fast reactions, Derek might have done him some damage. As it was, the burglar just broke off mid-sentence and ducked neatly out of the way.

He cocked his head at Derek. Even though the hood obscured half his features, Derek could see him smirk. “What did I tell you about working on your reflexes?” he asked.

Derek bristled. “I should call the police.”

“That’s original. Because, like, I’ve never heard that one before.”

The guy stopped at the foot of Derek’s bed and grinned at him. He was taller than Derek had first thought, and broader around the shoulders. From what he could see of him, Derek noted that the guys lips were red and his teeth were straight and white and Derek—

Derek needed to stop checking him out.

“Why are you here?” Derek asked curtly.

His phone was on his bedside table, switched off, as it always was when Derek was reading. If he reached for it, the guy would escape before the police even picked up the call. So he stalled for time and tried to think of a different plan.

In answer to his question, the guy shrugged. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

Derek raised an eyebrow at him. “The wrong foot? You _stole_ from me—”

“Also,” the guy said, cutting Derek off. “I need a pen. Mine ran out earlier.” He turned around and plucked an expensive fountain pen from Derek’s desk. With a grin, he held it up to the light and wiggled it between his fingers. “You don’t mind, do you?”

It was Derek’s favorite pen.

He pushed himself upright and adopted his most commanding tone.

“Put that down.”

“Why don’t you make me?”

Fine. If that’s how he wanted it, then—Derek lunged for him.

The guy took off and somersaulted out of the window before Derek’s feet even hit the carpet. As Derek looked down into the garden below, a sense of déjà vu swept over him. “Damn it,” he said.

The thief lingered outside his window once more; his chin jaunted upward tauntingly. “You’re too slow,” he called, and it sounded like a complaint. “Try harder next time. We’ll be seeing one another again soon, Mr. Hale.”

“How do you know my—” Derek started.

Before the sentence had formed fully on his lips, the man disappeared.

\---

When Derek came home from the bookstore several days later, he found the guy in the kitchen helping himself to leftovers from their refrigerator. He had his hood up as usual, but it was far less effective in the broad daylight and did little to obscure the point of his nose or the moles on his cheeks.

Derek rolled his eyes at him. “You’re not even trying,” he accused.

The guy shrugged as he pushed aside a four-pack of yoghurt. “Why would I go to the effort of trying? You never bother to put up a decent chase. Make it worth my while and maybe I’ll be more villainous. Also, dude, what’s up with all the healthy food here?” He turned to wave a bunch of celery at Derek accusatorily. “I can’t eat this! It’s rabbit food.”

“I didn’t buy it for you to eat it,” Derek pointed out reasonably. He took the celery from the guy’s hand and set it down on the kitchen counter. “My house, my food. Why are you here?”

“I’m hungry,” the guy said, like that answer was obvious.

Derek snorted. “Don’t you have your own food to eat?”

“Other people’s food always tastes better.” The guy withdrew from the fridge with a small tub of chocolate mousse that Peter ordered once a week from a pretentious hipster grocery home-delivery service. He hip-checked the door shut then turned to Derek. “Where’d you keep your spoons?”

Before Derek could gripe at him about how that was _none of his damn_ business, Cora bustled into the kitchen. She looked at the stranger, first puzzled, and then slightly intrigued. It was an expression that never boded well for Derek, and it never failed to set apprehension roiling through his stomach. “Second drawer down next to the oven,” she said, being helpful for the first time in about a decade. “Derek, who’s your friend?”

“He’s—”

A thief, a stranger, and an irritating kid. _Not_ Derek’s friend.

But it’s not like Derek can tell Cora that. What would he say? Yeah, sis, this is the guy who stole Peter’s statue from us. He’s been back a few times since. Why haven’t I called the police? Uh… actually, that’s a good question.

“I’m Stiles,” the guy said. He slid the drawer open and extracted a spoon. “You must be Cora. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Derek and Cora’s eyebrows shot up in sync.

Oblivious to this, Stiles popped the lid off the top of the mousse and dug in. Derek pointedly did not notice the way his lips wrapped around the spoon, or the way his tongue darted out to lick the chocolate from it.

“You didn’t tell me you invited a friend over,” Cora said to Derek, eyes narrowed.

Derek shrugged.

“Aw, no, I’m just passing through,” said Stiles. He shoveled another spoonful of chocolate into his mouth and grinned at her toothily. “Gotta get going now, actually. Thanks for the mousse, Derek.” He dropped the empty tub on the counter next to the celery and tossed the spoon into the sink. “I’ll see you around.”

He clapped his palm against Derek’s chest as he passed him, strode down the corridor like he’d done it a million times before, and walked out through the front door.

Derek sighed. “Please don’t say anything,” he told Cora, before she could start ribbing him for having a _crush_ or whatever juvenile label she’d give this thing. “I’m not in the mood.”

She didn’t listen, so Derek was forced to spend the rest of the day in the library hiding behind his books. Not that he minded. At least his books didn’t laugh at him.

\---

He didn’t see Stiles again for almost a week.

Time crawled by slowly. Sometimes Derek found himself staring out of windows with a book forgotten on his lap. He wasn’t pining, no matter what Cora said. It was just that things were too quiet around the house and it was making him restless. That’s all.

When Stiles climbed in through his window on Friday afternoon, Derek couldn’t suppress the wave of relief that rushed over him. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t frown either, as Stiles lifted Derek’s old BU hoodie from the back of his desk chair and slid it on over his own thin tee.

“It’s cold,” he said, before Derek could ask what he was doing.

He spun the chair around and sat down in it, facing Derek. The hoodie was too big for him, too broad around the shoulders, and it hung from his frame like the ocean around a swimmer. Stiles didn’t bother to put the hood up to hide his features. For the first time, Derek could see his warm brown eyes and his messy birds’ nest hair.

It didn’t make his heart flutter. Not even a little bit.

Derek sighed at him. “I’m never going to see that again, am I?”

“Probably not. I guess you’d best make the most of it while I’m still here.”

“What do you want, Stiles?”

Stiles grinned at him. “You remember my name.”

“You keep breaking into my house. Of course I remember your name.” Derek’s brow furrowed minutely as he realized that Stiles could easily be an alias. Who would name their kid Stiles? “Wait,” he said. “Is that a code-name, or…”

“Nah, it’s a nickname.” Stiles wheeled his chair closer to Derek’s bed and prodded gently at the underside of his socked foot. When Derek squirmed and wiggled away, Stiles grinned. Stupid boy. “My first name is unpronounceable for the average human tongue,” he said, like nothing just happened. “My best friend started calling me Stiles when we were, like, seven. Everyone latched on to it because it’s easy to say and after that it kind of stuck.”

“Heart-warming,” Derek said dryly.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Here I am, bearing my soul to you, and you get _sarcastic_ with me?”

“You still haven’t told me why you’re here,” Derek pointed out.

“Dunno,” said Stiles with a shrug. “I was bored and Scott was busy.” He paused, giving Derek a long, evaluating glance, then asked, “D’you wanna watch a movie or something?”

Derek meant to say no. Really, he did. But then Stiles wheeled over to the tall shelves on the other side of his room and started making excited noises at his extensive DVD collection.

“Dude, what the hell?” he said. “You have more DVDs than, like, anyone else I know. This is awesome.”

“Great. Does this mean you’re going to steal them next time you come?”

Stiles snorted. “Maybe I’ll steal them this time. Keep on your toes.” He waggled his eyebrows at Derek and winked. “How about Donnie Darko? Wait, no, I’ve seen that already. Um… The Hunger Games? No, wait, ignore that. I’m not in the mood for any dystopia stuff. It’s too out there, man, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“We should go for something lighter. Mean Girls?”

“No. I’ve seen it too many times.”

Stiles frowned at him. “There’s no such thing as too many times with that film. Clueless?”

“No. I’m not watching a rom-com with you.”

“Fine.” Stiles huffed, sounding put-upon. “Brokeback Mountain?”

“No,” said Derek instantly.

Brokeback Mountain always made him cry, and he was _not_ going to cry in front of a burglar.

“Okay, seriously. Why have all these DVDs if you don’t want to watch any of them?”

Derek rolled his eyes and stretched out lazily in his bed. Then he swung his legs over the side of the mattress and stood up. His legs felt tingly and stiff from lack of use. He had to hobble to join Stiles by the bookshelves.

He didn’t hesitate before he picked out a movie from the top shelf.

Stiles made a questioning noise at him.

Derek showed him the cover and said, “The Breakfast Club.”

“Wow. You are _such_ a cliché,” said Stiles. “I’m not watching that hipster trash.”

“It’s not hipster _trash_. It’s awesome. You probably haven’t even seen it, so—”

Stiles rolled his eyes and stood up too, pushing the chair away with one foot as he reached up to the top shelf. His leg brushed against Derek’s from calf to thigh, warm.

“Captain America,” he announced decisively, waving the box in Derek’s face. “You can either take it or leave it.”

Derek grumbled that it wasn’t even the best Marvel film. Iron Man and The Amazing Spider Man were both considerably better. Still, he took the DVD box from Stiles and led him down to the lounge.

Two hours later, Cora found them curled up on the sofa together. Stiles had his legs thrown over Derek’s lap. There was a huge bowl of popcorn balanced on his thighs, for easy access, and Derek’s hands were wrapped loosely around Stiles’s calves. He may or may not have been massaging them gently. No one would ever know.

\---

“Stiles,” said Derek, massaging his temples in a half-ditch attempt to tamp down his irritation. “ _Please_ tell me you’re not using my toothbrush in there.”

“Not using your toothbrush,” Stiles garbled around a mouthful of minty foam. “It’s mine now. I’m taking it home with me later, so don’t sweat it.”

Derek heard the water faucet rumble to life in his en suite, followed by the loud sound of Stiles gargling. He gargled obnoxiously, the same way he did everything else.

“I hate you,” Derek told him flatly.

Stiles padded out of the bathroom wearing baggy sweatpants, one of Derek’s oversized old band tees and a smug smirk. “You don’t hate me,” he said, poking his finger at Derek’s ribs. “If you did, you’d have called the cops by now.”

“Do,” grumbled Derek. “I might call them tonight while you’re sleeping.”

“You won’t,” said Stiles as he crawled into Derek’s bed. “Even if you did, I’m a light sleeper. I’d _know_ as soon as you picked up your phone.”

Derek huffed and climbed into the other side.

“If you steal the blankets again tonight I’m going to throttle you,” he said. Then he turned out the light.

\---

It was strange how quickly Derek got used to sharing his bed, his clothes, his everything with Stiles. They weren’t even friends. Stiles just appeared, took things, and then left again. There was nothing more to it, and Derek understood that.

Not only did he understand it. He was _okay_ with it.

Seriously, he didn’t mind that sometimes he didn’t see Stiles for weeks on end. Not even when his books lost their appeal because he was too worried about Stiles to concentrate. Not even when he dreamt that Stiles got caught and locked up and awoke shaking, covered in a cold sweat. Not even when his soft sheets felt too cold and lonely without Stiles beside him, so he migrated to the couch in the library and slept there more often than not.

“You’re going to wake up with a crick in your neck if you sleep like that,” Stiles told him with a frown one night as he prodded Derek awake.

It was late. He must have climbed in through a window.

Derek groaned and rolled over, hiding his face in the leather.

“Don’t care.”

“I care,” said Stiles. He prodded Derek again. “Come on, big guy. I can’t carry you. Get the hell up so we can go to bed.”

He coaxed Derek to his feet and towed him to bed.

The next morning, Derek woke up with a Stiles curled up on his chest. His breathing was steady, even, but he wasn’t asleep. Instead, he was watching Derek with a soft smile.

“What?”

Stiles’s smile widened. “Nothing,” he said, rolling away. “I just missed you.”

It was the first time they’d seen each other in nearly three weeks.

“I missed you too,” Derek muttered, still half-asleep. “I worry about you when you’re gone.”

Stiles nudged Derek’s foot with his own under the blanket. His toes were cold enough to make Derek wince.

“Sorry,” he said, and then unapologetically pressed them into Derek’s calves. “It’s—you know. Work stuff. Sometimes I need to lay low for a while.”

“Yeah,” said Derek. “I get it.”

He stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom, trying to keep his expression blank. Stiles wasn’t having any of it. He snuggled closer to him and wrapped his arms around Derek’s sides. “Next time I’ll warn you,” he said. “Promise.”

\---

Stiles had text Derek saying he’d be back in Beacon Hills at four o’ clock. It was nearly six, the sun had settled low over the forest, and there was still no sign of him. Dread clawed at Derek’s stomach, making him feel nauseous.

The house was silent apart from the rustle of Peter turning over a page in the newspaper. He was sitting on the couch reading it. Every so often he glanced up at Derek with a knowing smirk.

“What’s gotten you so anxious?” he asked, eyeing Derek’s bouncing knee.

Derek scowled and forcibly stilled it. “Nothing.”

He text Stiles a curt ‘Where are you?’ and continued staring at the wall.

As if on cue, the door to the lounge flew open and Stiles ran in. He was wearing a cop uniform and carrying a handgun, which he aimed at Peter. There were three other officers behind him, all following suit. “Don’t move,” Stiles commanded.

Derek sat frozen in place.

Peter rolled his eyes and closed his newspaper slowly. “Officer Stilinski,” he said cordially. “I wondered when you’d make another appearance.”

“Can it, Hale,” the young man behind Stiles spat. “You’re under arrest.”

Stiles snorted. “No need to make a speech, Scott. The bastard knows he’s caught.” He put his gun back in its holster and reached for the pair of handcuffs that hung from his belt loops. He cracked them open with a flourish and said, “Hands on your head, Mr. Hale. Come on, I don’t have all day.”

Peter looked amused as Stiles fastened the metal cuffs around his wrist.

“Whatever you think you’ve got on me,” he said. “It’ll never stand up in court.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow at him. “How about the thirteen black-market auctioneers I found, all of whom are willing to testify against you?”

The smirk dropped from Peter’s lips.

“We don’t go against our own,” he said.

“Good as an admission,” Stiles noted. “Did you get that, Reyes?”

A blonde officer behind Stiles waved a recording device at Peter and nodded. “Got it, boss.”

“Perfect.” Stiles dragged Peter to his feet with one hand and pushed him over to the officer behind him—Scott. “Take him out to the van and secure him in the back,” he said. “Reyes, you follow him out, cover his back. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Reyes and Scott left, Peter in tow.

Stiles sat down beside Derek the second they left the room.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said softly, covering one of Derek’s hands with his own. “And I’m sorry for being the cop who just arrested your uncle.”

Derek stared back at him numbly, trying to process what had just happened. Stiles was a cop. He’d been watching Peter this whole time. Maybe he used Derek to observe him closer, or he was trying to trick Derek into revealing things about Peter that—

He cut that train of thought off. Stiles never talked to him about Peter. Not once.

And Stiles was still sitting there, even after they caught Peter, hands wrapped around Derek’s, looking up at Derek like he was the most important person in the world.

It had been two months since they last saw one another. Maybe even longer.

“You’ve had your hair cut,” said Derek. “It suits you.”

Stiles laughed. “That’s what you’re gonna say to all this?”

“Well. I’m also glad that you’re not really a criminal, I guess.”

“Yeah,” said Stiles. “I’m glad too.”

\---

Derek didn’t pay Peter’s bail money, didn’t hire him a particularly good lawyer, and didn’t care when he got locked up for three years. Peter called him from jail and said, “I think you’re being unreasonable about this. I practically raised you, and Cora, and—”

“Yeah,” said Derek. “You raised us so that you could steal half our trust fund. You spent most of the money our _dead_ parents left us on illegal artwork.”

Peter began making excuses on the other end of the line. Derek rolled his eyes and slammed the phone shut. Stiles always mocked him for still having a flip-up Samsung cell phone, but at least he could end a call with a flourish. Can’t do that with an iPhone, that’s for sure.

“Dramatic,” said Stiles.

He had a proud little smile on his face.

“Necessary,” corrected Derek. “My uncle is a dick.”

Stiles hummed an agreement.

They were tucked away in a secluded corner of the library, avoiding Cora. She kept cooing at them every time she walked past. It had been funny the first time, maybe (but not really). Then it just got awkward.

As ever, Derek had a book in his lap. Stiles sat cross-legged beside him, a pointy knee digging into Derek’s thigh. “I’m kind of glad your uncle is a dick, though,” he mused.

“Are you.”

“What did we say about inflection, Derek? We use it when we ask questions.”

Derek swatted him lightly with the back of his book. “Are you?” he repeated, forcing his voice to turn high and squeaky at the end.

“That’s better,” said Stiles. “I mean, it’s a little eleven-year-old girl-ish, but I can live with that.” He took the book out of Derek’s hand and set it down on the floor. “And yeah, I am glad your uncle is a dick,” he continued, shuffling around on the couch to face Derek. “If he weren’t then I might never have met you.”

It was probably the corniest line anyone had ever used on him. Probably.

He didn’t care, though, because it was Stiles and everything had always been easy with Stiles.

So Derek closed the gap between them and kissed Stiles hard.

“I’m glad I met you too,” he said.

That night they curled around one another, their bodies a tangled jumble of naked skin and sweat. Stiles tugged the duvet across his body fully, leaving hardly anything to cover Derek. It was okay, though. The feel of his body pressed close to Derek’s side, his soft exhales tickling against Derek’s neck, was more than enough to keep him warm forever.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading. any/all feedback is always appreciated. also, come hang out on [tumblr](http://dimestorepoet.tumblr.com). i like to talk about dylan o'brien and dumb teenage werewolves a lot.


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